


Belong Here

by belovedmuerto



Series: depeche mode inspired stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depeche Mode inspired, M/M, Smut, music meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cleans his room. John rewards him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belong Here

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I suppose it had to happen eventually: this fandom has fully sucked me down the rabbit hole. I'm writing actual smut now. (Be gentle with me, dear reader, this is my first time.)
> 
> This is my first fic for the music challenge thing myself and [theplatonicnonyeah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah) are doing based on Depeche Mode songs. This one happens to be inspired by "Home", which happens to be my favorite DM song and possibly my favorite song full stop. But I'll not get into it else I might talk your ear off. Ostensibly there will be six from each of us, her first can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/255992).

While not precisely novel, it certainly isn’t the normal thing for them to be having sex in Sherlock’s bed. They generally opt for John’s; they usually sleep there anyway--sex or not--it’s more comfortable by far, bigger too.

But Sherlock, on some inexplicable and no doubt insane whim, had cleaned his room.

Cleaned. His. Room.

He’d purged the old experiments, aired out the room. It shocked John down to his core, to the point that he’d checked Sherlock’s eyes, felt his forehead for a fever, asked pointed questions about the date, their location, and what precisely Mycroft does for a living (the derision with which Sherlock answered that had reassured John of his lover’s relative health, or at least of his soberness).

With all his clothes actually put away, the experiments and their detritus gone, the books returned to their proper places (John still hasn’t figured out his cataloging system), Sherlock’s room could belong to an ascetic: the bed is narrow and the mattress hard, the dresser and wardrobe the only other furniture. Instead of a crucifix on his wall, there is what looks to John like a very old etching of the periodic table. Old enough that it’s missing more than a few of the elements.

This is where Sherlock found him, gazing at the etching, murmuring the missing elements under his breath. For some reason, the sight is one of the sexiest things Sherlock can imagine (and let’s face it: Sherlock’s imagination is not lacking in any department). Which is why they’re having sex in Sherlock’s bed, for once. John wonders briefly (before his brain goes off-line, which is somewhere around the same time his pants disappear) if Sherlock will look back on this as reward for cleaning. He wonders if that would work. ( _Maybe? Further experimentation shall be required. Such a hardship that will be. Fuck, I’m even starting to think like Sherlock._ )

The narrow bed doesn’t leave a lot of room for acrobatics, and quite frankly doesn’t feel sturdy enough for the sort of shenanigans that end with both of them shouting themselves hoarse (turns out, the kitchen table wasn’t built for that either--you live, you learn).

Also, Mrs H is none too shy about telling them to keep the noise down.

It’s the only time Sherlock blushes, because he’s by far the louder of them, and he knows it. John never lets him forget it.

So they’re spooned together in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock curled in front of John, pressed tight against him, fit together like puzzle pieces, like links on a chain. The light sheen of sweat between them keeps John’s movements easy, the rhythm he’s set slow and maddening and perfect, shallow thrusts designed, it seems, to set every nerve in both their bodies aflame.

John is point and counterpoint, keeping Sherlock on the edge of orgasm, keeping him still, keeping him gasping.

Each gasp is John’s name, voiceless, a litany of John’s name, a hymn. Sherlock’s fingers are clenched, desperate and tight, against John’s hip. John has had handprint bruises on his hips for so long he thinks they may be permanent. (Permanent is all right.) Sherlock’s other hand, somehow, is against the nape of John’s neck, urging him closer the only way he can.

Sherlock is gone, entirely lost to sensation. The feel of iliac crest and cervical vertebrae ( _C2, C3, C4, C5_ ) and skin beneath his hands, skin slick with sweat, bones solid, are the only anchors he has to reality, the only things keeping him from bursting into component molecules and scattering to the stars.

“I’m here,” John murmurs, lips pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder, the spot where his levator scapulae is always tight. “I’m here.”

“John, John, John, John,” Sherlock continues to gasp, with each breath that each thrust pushes from him. “Please.”

John can feel the plea more than hear it: it’s in the tightening of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles beneath John’s forearm, the heave of his chest as he struggles to breathe around the endorphins, the squeeze of his eyelids, lashes wet against his cheeks, the press of his head back against John’s shoulder, the arch of his back, the minute helpless thrusts of his hips, aborted, unable to decide whether to push back onto John, or forward into his hand, the clench of his muscles around John’s cock.

John opens his mouth on a gasp of his own, presses his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, smiles, schools himself not to let go, not to give in, not just yet.

Sherlock cannot even draw enough breath to keen, to make any sound at all, but he certainly tries. John soothes him, tortures him, tortures both of them with his slow thrusts, drives Sherlock mad with sensation, mad with need, mad with love; John wishes he could do this forever, die together with Sherlock right this moment and spend eternity just like this, right here, never leaving, in perfect union.

“Love you,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Love you, Sherlock.”

(Normally, when John tells Sherlock that in the middle of sex, Sherlock doesn’t believe him. He orders John to save it until later, when he’s not mad with sex and hormones, later when he means it for real. And John always obliges him, because he loves the madman with all his heart.)

“Love,” Sherlock gasps. “John, love.” He almost manages to find his voice. “Be... long... here... John.”

John pants against Sherlock’s shoulder, presses sloppy kisses and soft bites against his pale skin. “Now,” he murmurs. “Now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cannot help but obey; he comes apart at the seams with a voiceless moan, a sobbed intake of breath, all of his bones and nerves bursting at the same time, and John follows suit shortly thereafter, breathing Sherlock’s name against his shoulder in awe, trembling through his orgasm, leaving teeth marks on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Both of them reconstitute from their component parts in time. Sherlock eventually manages to turn over to face John, twining their legs together and kissing him slowly, languidly, unable to find words through the haze in his head. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, settling them as comfortably as he can manage on Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock is content to lie in the circle of John’s arms, safe in his sense of home and happy with it; it’s not something he thinks about often, but it makes his chest ache with how much he loves John when he considers how they belong together, to each other.

John is content to hold Sherlock, despite the discomfort of the bed, the fact they both need showers desperately, content to stay right where he is until such time as boredom looks sidelong at Sherlock and he bounds off, and John is left to go haring after him like usual. It’s the way things are, and it’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> The specific line, in case you're wondering, is: "Finally I found that I belong here". Gets me every damn time.


End file.
